I Heart Canada

I've only been to Canada a few times. Your basic Niagra Falls, or underage drinking roadtrip to Windsor. Low key stuff.

I did go to Toronto once for business and aside from a sketchy travel companion, it was a pretty cool trip. (I stayed in the same hotel as Mario Van Peebles, Charles S. Dutton and one of the Backstreet Boys) I don't know if that makes the trip more or less cool.

Anyway...

I've just returned from the land of Gretsky and let me say this - I freakin' love Canada.

Does free healthcare just make for happier people? Are they more pleasant because even hotel tap water tastes like it came out of a flippin' forest stream? Does their kindness stem from from quaint pronunciations of "about" and "process"?

Don't know. Don't care. But I think I want to live in Canada. This is how I imagined I'd find the people of Montana (ack, still haven't made it there) But unfettered by, what I call, the Entitlement Issue of Americans. Who do we think we are, anyway? We've got it pretty good and yet we keep getting in our own way most days. And boy, are we grumpy for all our freedoms! (Do not lead me down that path this evening)

What I'm getting at is this - "Oh, Canada" really ought to be "Oh! Canada!" (a nod to my friend DG's love of exclamation points)

But to hell with grammar, Canada deserves a few more exclamation points in my humble opinion. I just freakin' heart Canada.

In a land where Hush Puppies are the height of fashion

I'm kidding...sort of.

I'm in Canada for a few days on business. And after a full day of standing around and telling people how to talk, write and act - I realized something very disturbing.

I brought the freakin' wrong pair of shoes. (Well, the first part is disturbing too, as these are grown ass men and women and have functioned in the world so far just fine) Anyway...

It became very clear that before I hit the hotel bar or ordered room service - I needed a new pair of shoes.

The problem is this - cute shoes are not comfortable and comfortable shoes sure as eff ain't cute. So it's the amazing pair of boots that will actually disfigure my feet forever OR the cute Sketcher sneakers that masquerade as grown up shoes, but actually should only be worn by cute co-eds OR the leather work shoe that looks like it's probably all the rage with the ladies whoopin' it up at the retirement home.

I finally managed to find this quite cute soft leather Mary Jane-ish shoe that was uber-comfortable. The sales girl made an extra special deal out of these shoes being Hush Puppies. And all I could think was "if you really want me to buy these, you'll take that back right this second!"

Where the hell was I when Hush Puppies got cool? Sure, back when I was in Third Grade there were dreams of a shiny new pair of red Hush Puppies during Back-to-School shopping, but those went side by side with the dreams that my hair was straight and could be feathered (ala Farrah Fawcett)

Is this a geographical anomaly? Is Canada, in fact, the land of Hush Puppies? Or, and this is easily possible - I fell asleep, missed a few episodes of Fashion TV and missed the announcement that comfortable, soft leather shoes are all the rage with Celebretants like Paris and Nicole. Gosh, I hope so. Cause if comfortable shoes finally went and got cool - my life is just about perfect.

Either that, or I'm moving to Canada.

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid: Chapter 2

BRIDAL SHOWERS
And Chinese Water Torture.

Bridal showers were invented by older women who have already lived through their own weddings. Most of them hated every moment of it, as they were beset upon by their minions of relatives who were always ready to lend an opinion. BUT and it’s a big BUT, they have forgotten all this. They forgot what it was like as a younger woman to sit in a big circle of strangers and wrap each other in toilet paper wedding dresses. It has slipped their minds that they didn't care who bought the set of towels or the rattan ottoman. Who the eff does?

The bridal shower is really just a way to torture the bridal party with finger food (that they are trying to avoid just so they can fit into their recently sized dress) and to get lots and lots of free stuff for the bride.

Now, I'm not against free stuff. I LOVE free stuff. But this stuff ain’t free for me. In fact, being in a wedding costs a fortune. A gen-u-ine veritable fortune. (More on that later) It really would make more sense for bridal parties to consist of great-aunts and elderly neighbors, because they’re the ones with the extra cash squirreled away. Most of us who actually don the dress are struggling to make car and house payments, pay off student loans and save up for some plastic surgery, god willing.

But, as they say, life ain’t fair. Not even a little. So…

("So" is like "But" - pretty much everything before it is a waste of time because the truth is up next)

So...suck it up cry baby. Sadly, there is nothing left to do. Take your lumps. Get to the registry early while there are still towels available. Spike the punch. Whatever it takes to muddle through and then do that which must be embedded in the 2nd X chromosome - make your friends do the very same when it's your turn up to bat.

Payback - there are a ton of you suckers on my list - just you wait....

Indiana Discothèques and Other Flights of Fancy

Okay, I don't actually spend every waking moment in a bar, pub or night club. Although the last several posts would suggest otherwise.

Truth is, I finally feel like being back out into the social scene after a relationship ended with a proverbial kick in the nuts. So hey - when the girls say "let's get our groove on" - I say "word."

I had back-to-back dancing frenzies. One at a favorite dancing spot where the girls and I sneak off to and do the shimmy-down next to a great big salad bar in the shape of a row boat. Added bonus, my most favoritest cover band was playing and let me say this - if these folks can't make you dance, nothing can!

Anyway, we bookended that with a trip to see friends in Indiana the next day and scooted to a funny little hot spot in South Bend. Again - I love me a cover band, and these kids were cool too. But my favorite part about this little Indiana Discotheque was it's "we welcome all kinds" attitude. Okay fine, the guy at the door would have you believe you're heading into Studio 54 - but when you walk in it is Melting Pot Central. Cowboys, Hillbillies, Hippies, Preppies (seriously, white jeans and orange polo on a boy), Bikers (seriously, leather vest and Dierks Bently perm) and well, us - probably a mixture of all of the above.

But I tell you this now - nothing brings people together like a little B-52's and Vanilla Ice. If we all took a moment to revel in the genius of Mr. Ice, I think this would be a happier world. A world with fewer crimes, bigger hearts and funnier reality tv shows.

"If there was a problem, Yo, I'll solve it. Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it"

A Brush with Death at The Barking Frog

I've mentioned my affinity for crappy little bars and last night I nearly died in one.

The Barking Frog is a kindly crappy little bar in Battle Creek that I frequented last night with a friend.

For a crappy little bar, it is kind enough to pair up good local mircobrews right next to the Bud Light. I appreciate their sense of irony.

Anyway, as those in the southwest-ish area of Michigan may be aware - there were Tornado Warnings aplenty last night. And while families huddled in their basements around the battery-operated radio, I was sitting with a tall boy of Oberon at The Barking Frog.

I mused over a couple of things:

1. I've come a long way. My mom, sister and I spent some serious time huddled in a basement around a battery-operated radio sweating and fretting over storms and tornados all summer long when I was a kid. I think it's a testiment to progress or evolution or some such thing that I can sit calmly at a bar during treacherous weather and sip a beer.

2. My dad would be so proud if my obituary read:

"Born January 25, 1973 - Died October 17, 2007. Passed away at The Barking Frog."

Don't get crazy my dad doesn't wish me ill, he wishes me an excellent ending to my story. My father, like me, is a collector of stories. Our aim in life is to live well enough to accumulate some pretty good stories we can tell our friends and family (over and over again).

Anyway, last night I had a near-death experience and all I could think was: "Beer, friends, Lynyrd Skynyrd - this wouldn't be such a bad way to go."

I Long For A Mix Tape

I love my iPod, I do. It's nice to peruse one's music collection with the rotation of one's thumb. But I miss Mix Tapes.

I know, there are people who will say - "Put together a Playlist" blah, blah, blah...

It's just not the same. It really isn't.

Sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, cd's strewn about, looking at cover art, checking out who wrote the songs, trying to discern the various stages of Cher's plastic surgery - you can't beat that kind of quality time with a stick.

And if we're really getting to the heart of it - I miss the storytelling capacity of a Mix Tape. How I can go back to Mixes I've made and know exactly who I was dating, who I was obsessing over, who I had just broken up with based on the sappy or sassy soundtrack I'd compiled. Who needs a diary when music really does reflect our lives, exactly as they were at any given moment in our lives?

I can't quite remember which dodgy relationship bookended Josh Groban and Violent Femmes on the same Mix, but I'm sure if I give it one more listen - it'll all come rushing back.

God, how I love a Mix Tape.

Random Musings in the Car

I am in the middle of a trip to visit family out east and began it with a 10 hour car ride with my dad. 10 hours is a lot of time to talk and the topics were varied.

But at one point we got to talking about people and their "issues." I'm pretty sure it was just a lame reference to Grey's Anatomy and how we're so sick of Meredith and her issues. Not that she didn't have it tough (in a fictional character sort of way. Although let's be honest she's no Huck Finn or Oliver Twist) - but (and this was the bulk of our conversation)...

...What really grinds on me who are aware of their issues and refuse to put them to bed. "Oh I have intimacy issues" says the beautiful intern who is hopelessly loved by her hot surgeon boyfriend - and then does nothing to change her present situation.

"They" say that recognizing an issue or problem is 1/2 the battle. Bollocks. That's an eighth, maybe a sixteenth of the battle. The real battle is taking action.

I told my dad that I hope I do not become a collector of issues. That instead I become a zoologist of issues. Identify them, tag them and then set them free in the wild.

In lieu of that, let me become a beautiful intern pursued by a hot neurosurgeon who can't get enough of me and my issues. That wouldn't be so bad either.

Crappy Little Bars

Have I ever mentioned how much I love a crappy little bar?

Crappy little bars aren't pretentious - they don't judge or pontificate on whether or not your wardrobe is apropos. Crappy little bars don't care.

Crappy little bars might not be on the right side of the tracks - although I don't entirely understand what the wrong side looks like. I grew up in a trailer park - tracks are irrelevant.

Crappy little bars know that you are just a person, who wants to have fun. Fun is to be had regardless of whether or not there are signs on the men's and women's bathrooms. Fun is to be had whether or not the taps have been cleaned, the floors mopped or the band practiced.

Crappy little bars don't trouble themselves with details like silverware, candlelight or ambiance.

Crappy little bars remind me of the type of man I'd like to one day meet. Real. Zero judgement. 100% acceptance.

A crappy little bar doesn't care where you bought your jeans or whether your shoes are Nine West or Wal-Mart clearance. Crappy little bars want to know that you are here for the experience, that you are here for the show. And nothing, but nothing else matters.